While On The Topic of Death
by peanut18
Summary: He was that plastic bag in the parking lot, rolling along the asphalt, neither airborne nor grounded. He had not wanted death, yet it had come all the same. Cedric Diggory died in that cold graveyard. He had died without a second's worth of thought.
1. Chapter 1

**On The Topic of Death: A Passing of Certain Events**

Death had always occurred to him as such a frightful thing. Frightful indeed, for who knew what came after the heart stopped it's rhythm and the soul fled from the body. His had fled. There had been no stopping it, despite all indignation he felt swelling his body. No... he no longer had a body. His being, his spirit was now the appropriate word. A spirit, cut loose from its earthly ties and left to flutter about in the afterlife. He was that plastic bag in the parking lot, tossed between the fickle winds, rolling along the asphalt, neither airborne nor grounded. He had not wanted death, yet it had come all the same. Cedric Diggory died in that cold graveyard. He had died without a second's worth of thought.

"Tea?"

"There's no point. I have no body to drink it with," Cedric replied, feeling incredibly cross at the invitation.

Then he paused at that one. He had no mouth with which to reply either.

"Honestly, now where is the fun in that? Imagine, boy! Imagine!"

The obliterating white that had recently become Cedric's life shifted. He felt the shift move through every fiber of... whatever he was now, and watched with new eyes as color began to seep into existence. It bled across his field of vision, for now he had eyes, eyes that felt real enough. The world began as a series of pale, transparent colors. They joined and overlapped, each one building upon the other, striving for clarity. Convinced of his body's return to being, Cedric turned about and marveled at the environment that constructed itself around him. The garden seemed real, right down to the soft breeze that tousled his hair and the ivy covered brick wall that kept the luxurious plant life neatly boxed in around them. His companion sat down at the small mosaic table positioned in the middle of the patio. It was the center of this small, calm little world.

She motioned for him to sit.

"Come on, now, don't resent me. I did what was required of me," she sighed, reaching for the plump, emerald teapot.

"How could I resent the Collector of Souls for doing her job?" Cedric asked, walking over with new legs. It was a relief to actually have a body to rest upon a chair.

"Wise words for someone so fresh in this world. Cheeky. You resent me, alright. Almost as much as Death herself, that creaky old bitch," the Collector snorted, waving a slim finger at him as she poured the tea.

The hot beverage glimmered out of the frail china, golden in the light that filled the new space around him. She encouraged him to drink. He was hesitant. When it became clear that the Collector would not be swayed by his unease, staring out from behind her tight black curls expectantly, Cedric tentatively took a sip. The warmth was explosive and Cedric surrendered to its might instantly. He eased his head down to the table top and made feeble attempts to keep the flood of grief at bay.

"Let it come, sweets," she cooed, reaching over to place her hand on him.

He didn't want to let it come. Allowing the overwhelming sadness to finally take him entirely meant he had to admit that he was indeed, irreversibly, dead. He didn't last long.

"I... am ... dead," the sobbing admission burst forth. Cedric felt the tears he knew weren't real roll down his cheeks in strong, hot trails.

"Dead as a doornail," the Collector patted his arm in a reassuring manner.

Cedric looked into her warm smile, the pure white of her teeth striking against her dark skin. Oh, he sobbed then. He begged for life once more. He pleaded, bargained, wailed in the absolute misery of it. All the while the Collector smiled, rubbing her long, delicate fingers through those vibrant locks once so admired by the girls of Hogwarts. He clung to the hem of her dress, using the fabric to collect his tears. If he collected enough, maybe she would talk to Death and he could live again. Cedric whimpered as the last of the hysteria trickled out of him. She picked him up then, and wiped the moisture from his soft, supple cheeks. Cedric's body was young now, small and ruddy in her arms. The tears had rolled back his years, revealing an age he no longer recalled with any sort of clarity. The motherhood of her body had Cedric burrowing his face into the soft contour of her neck, seeking comfort as children do.

"Listen to me, sweets. There is a journey all must make after their death. You have choices to make. Important choices."

Cedric sniffled, watching as she carried him over to the small garden pond. They knelt by the still water, observing the fish below in silence. The Collector reached out and allowed her fingers to disturb the surface. It rippled beneath her touch and the fish scattered.

"The choices you make now will effect the path your soul takes in the rest of your future lives. Each cycle of life is illuminated by last. You will be tested. You must revisit the life you have led. It will be... painful."

She placed Cedric on her lap and he looked up at her. Cedric looked into her white, ever expanding eyes and knew he could not fight this. There was no resisting the trials every soul must endure. Cedric steadied himself with this knowledge, as defeating as it felt. The sweet, gentle Collector bent down and kissed his cheeks, eyelids, and finally placed a chaste kiss on his small lips.

"Do you remember leaping from the roof of your parent's house? You were eight. Merely eight and yet you wanted to die. Do you remember?" she asked, cupping his small, cherubic face between the palms of her hands.

"No. I don't remember," Cedric shuddered. He held no such memory.

"Then this is your test."

Cedric felt the fiber of the universe shift once more, and he was gone.

* * *

Interesting in hearing how this is received! Feedback is a precious tool.

peanut


	2. Chapter 2

**On The Topic of Death: Regression **

Martha Diggory sighed in defeat as the disquieting sound of shattering glass bounced off the walls and down the stairs. Martha had an ear for deciphering damage by sound alone. That crash and clatter had certainly been the demise of her beloved vanity mirror, the one with the frosted border and pink handle. She set down her sewing and stared up at the ceiling. Glass could be heard crunching underfoot as the culprit trod upon the damage. Her concentration was disturbed by the sound of Anthony Diggory snorting in his sleep. The sloth of a man repositioned his immense form on the recliner. Martha watched her lethargic husband, one of her penciled eyebrows arching up in contempt. There were only four people who resided in Martha Diggory's house. Other than herself, Anthony was snoring across the parlor, her only daughter, Elaine, was currently finishing her fourth year at Hogwarts, and the fourth... Oho that troublesome fourth! The fourth was her young nephew, a precocious Cedric Diggory, who insisted on breaking every fragile treasure in her possession.

Cedric Diggory's aunt huffed. The small pitter patter of feet could be heard scampering from her bedroom.

"Anthony! Cedric! Do something about that boy!" Martha waved her wand at the ceiling to emphasize her words.

"My darling," Anthony opened a bleary eye. "That boy is none of my concern."

"None of your concern?" Martha seethed in indignation. "That child is your brother's son. His son that he left in our charge so that he could run off to the Americas!"

"My brother did not 'run off' to the America's. It is business. Britain's presence in international affairs concerning magical creatures had weakened significantly... why waste my breath? All you care about, Wife, is broken china and skirting your responsibilities regarding children."

"My responsibilities?" Mrs. Diggory gave her husband a horrified look. "He is not our son! What sort of obligation do I hold towards a rug-rat that isn't from my own flesh and blood, or even your seed?"

"Precisely, my tart. He is not from my seed, and as such, the child falls into your obligation as the only female in this household," Anthony said, closing that bleary, tired eye once again.

Martha sputtered.

"You shouldn't have agreed to take him. At least I should have had a say in this, seeing that I am the only one taking care of him!" Martha rose from her seat to stand over her husband, like a tick bird twittering against the girth of the rhino.

"He is seven, dear. Boys will be boys, after all," Anthony replied.

"Five, dear _husband._ He is five!"

When it became quite clear that Mr. Diggory would no longer take part in the conversation, Martha Diggory smoothed the skirt of her dress. Straightening her hair in a nervous habit that had always irked her mother so, she made her way to the stairs. She followed the sound of running water. Goodness, what was he up to now? Martha could not keep up with this child. He would help her with housework for a month to make up for that prized mirror. It had been one of the last possessions she had as a reminder of her departed grandmother. Young Cedric would help with the dishes, help her put the clothes out on the line. She would make that young rapscallion clean the floor with his very own tooth brush until she was satisfied that the mirror's worth had been earned.

The red wine of Martha's anger evaporated as she opened the bathroom door and screamed at the sight that greeted her.

"Meemaw..." Cedric looked up at his aunt from his perch on the side of the tub.

"Cedric! What have you done?" Martha clung to the sink for all she was worth, the oncoming faint making her sight fuzzy. She really had never been very good with blood.

Cedric looked down at the bath water, red from the deep wounds in his feet. The damage had bled copiously, poor Cedric didn't know what to do.

"Why didn't you call for help? Foolish child!" Martha held a hand to her mouth, yet she did not pull out her wand. Martha did not cast any charms to heal her nephew.

"Martha? MARTHA! By heavens, woman! I heard a scream," Anthony bellowed up the stairs. He was greeted by silence and soon the thunderous blows of his feet ascending the stairs could be heard from the tiny bathroom.

Martha looked at the child, pale as the porcelain tub on which he sat. He did not cry, and he did not scream. What sort of terrible, unearthly child was this? Martha fell into shock as her husband wrestled his way into the room, knocking her down onto the toilet. He wasted no time. Unlike his wife, Anthony Diggory rushed forward, scooped the fainting child up into his arms, and healed the damaged caused by Martha's broken mirror with a quick, efficient flick of his wrist. He left, carrying his brother's son to the bedroom to recover. Martha followed weakly. She watched as he tucked the child in with a rare tenderness that stirred within the spiteful woman a wrenching hatred.

"That child is disturbed, Anthony. He is put together wrong!"

The room jerked out of clarity at the heavy, backhanded slap she received.

* * *

-peanut


End file.
